


Pieces

by XmagicalX (Xparrot)



Category: The Real Ghostbusters
Genre: Angst, Diary/Journal, Epistolary, Friendship, Gen, Presumed Dead, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-10-09
Updated: 1999-10-09
Packaged: 2017-10-09 07:31:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/84565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xparrot/pseuds/XmagicalX
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter died today.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pieces

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally published in the zine _Ghostwriters_, now out of print.
> 
> It is a personal favorite of my own work, for several reasons. Please enjoy!
    
    
    Ray Stantz's Journal   
    

March 31, 19—

Peter died today.

* * *
    
    
    Janine Melnitz's Diary   
    

_April 1, 19—_

_I missed an entry yesterday. I haven't done that in how long? I can't remember. My 30th birthday? I'm usually so good about keeping my diary. I was too tired last night for it._

_Dr. Peter Venkman, my boss, the Ghostbuster. He was killed yesterday morning on a bust. I've seen it in the papers. I'm reading it now in my own handwriting. It still doesn't look real. It's a lie, a practical joke. April Fool's!_

_How many years ~~have I known~~ did I know Peter? He hired me. I thought I was crazy to accept this job. The jury's still out on that one._

_I don't know if I still have a job._

_Egon's face. Yesterday morning, after the bust, when he got out of Ecto. His face said everything. I don't know what really happened. Only what's been in the news. I haven't asked them. Not yet._

_Tomorrow we start planning the funeral. Winston and me, I guess. I don't know who else. We haven't found Peter's father yet. And Ray's not ready—Egon—_

_I'm not ready, either._

_I love you, Egon. I hope I can stay. ~~You'll~~ They'll need me. They need me now more than they did before—Egon needs me. He'll need all of us. I don't think he's eaten yet. Winston cooked dinner tonight and none of us ate much, but I was watching Egon and I don't think he touched a thing. I don't think he did yesterday, either. I'm very worried about him._

_To bed, and tomorrow I'll write another entry, but it will still be true. I'll read it again and I'll get tears on the page again. Shit. The ink's running._

_I loved you, Peter._

* * *
    
    
    Letter to Stuart Clay   
    

April 4, 19—

Dear Stu,

Been a while since I've written. I know we vowed we would every year, but that was a long time ago and I've been busy. You'd say that's a lousy excuse, but then, you'd also say that trying to keep my promise was damn stupid to begin with. Get on with it, you'd say. And I did, but sometimes I remember our vow.

Something happened, a few days ago, and I wanted to tell you. I lost someone, a good friend, one of the best. The funeral was today, and now that it's over...I don't know what I'm doing. I'm writing this letter. Maybe it's to help me figure things out. You always were good at giving me advice, most of it was crazy, but you had some real wisdom, too. We were too young to appreciate it then, but it stuck with me.

Last time I wrote, I told you about my new job. Ghostbusters, and I can imagine what your expression would have been after reading that. But this is for real, and the men I work with are scientists, doctors, with enough college degrees to go around a couple of times. You'd think it funny that guys like that would turn out to be my best friends, but they are.

I wish you had gotten the chance to meet Peter Venkman. He is—he was a shrink, but he would've changed your opinion of the breed, and you would've liked him. The two of you could have gotten into more trouble in an hour than you, me, and the rest of the unit did that night in Nha Trang. Pete was good at getting in trouble...he got us in some tight spots, but he got us out of them, always.

It wasn't his fault this time. It wasn't anyone's—it was a bust, like we go on every day, when business is good, anyway, and it has been lately. Lots of ghosts in the springtime, and no, that's not a joke. We took the call and we went to the place. We knew what to expect from the report. A demon. We get several of those a year, believe it or not, and we're okay at handling them. They can be dangerous, most of them can breathe fire or throw trucks or do other stuff, but I'll tell you, I'll take a demon over the VC any day. At least a demon's not human.

This one was wrecking a subway station, and when I say wrecking, I mean like my dad's construction company does. It wasn't knocking over stands; it was knocking over subway cars, punching holes in the walls, bending the tracks. Everyone had gotten out when it showed and nobody was badly hurt, but it was looking to bring the station down around it, and if it got onto the street, people might not be so lucky.

Egon had brought the destabilizer, but when he took readings he realized it'd be no good against this demon. So he and Ray worked out another plan on the spot while Peter and I distracted it with our throwers, which didn't seem hurt it but maybe held it back—it was hard to tell. It kept twitching around, flickering in and out; you'd see it and then you wouldn't. Disappearing and reappearing again. What we could see of it looked like a big lizard, or a dinosaur, dark and scaly, with a long tail lashing around and large talons. It stood on its hind legs, kind of hunched over, tearing at the air and anything else in the way with its front claws. Its mouth kept opening and closing; it had a slew of sharp teeth, and a long, skinny, red tongue. It made this raspy screech, which we'd only hear when we could see it.

I don't know what kind of demon it was; I've never seen one like it before. Ray usually tells us what we fight—he'll educate us in the middle of a bust if we let him—but he's not ready to talk about this one yet. Egon might know too, but he hasn't said much at all. Maybe I should try to get it out of them. I don't know if I should be getting them to talk, or letting them keep quiet. I don't even know if I want to talk myself, if I even want to know. I don't care, really. It doesn't matter what that demon was, unless there's another one. Then we'll have to know. Ray will tell us then.

But this demon. It was ignoring us and wreaking havoc, and Ray and Egon came up with a way to stop it, like they always do. This wasn't their best idea, maybe, but there's been worse, and we always make it. We always have, anyway—we do our duty, we help people, and we come back in one piece. You always said those were the three requirements of a good job.

This wasn't a good job, but we thought it would be. Egon and Ray rigged a proton pack to detonate, and the idea was to throw this bomb in the monster's path and run like hell. Easier said than done—like I said, the demon was moving around, vanishing and coming back. I think Ray said something about teleportation. Anyway, not knowing what the thing was going to do next, we couldn't ambush it, and if we didn't get it dead-center in the blast Egon wasn't sure it would be effective.

Peter came up with the answer, hooking the pack on the demon, and since it was his idea he wasn't about to let any of us do it—he probably wouldn't have even if it had been my idea, or Ray or Egon's. Peter was too good at talking us into and out of things, and he wouldn't let any of us take risks if he could take them himself instead. He never said that outright; he always spoke like his main interest was looking out for number one, but he never acted like he talked. On busts he'd protect us automatically—even me, even when I was first starting and I knew more about combat situations than all of them put together. He reminded me of you in that, too, the way you'd try to watch all our backs whenever we went on a mission. You'd be in six places at once if you had to be to cover our asses, and so would Pete.

We wouldn't have let him go if we'd known—I would've knocked him down and done it myself, but I thought he could manage. The demon didn't seem aware of us; it had come close to clawing us a couple of times, but we just jumped out of the way and it didn't follow through. Peter figured he could get it from the side, toss the pack around its neck and let it hang there until it blew. Risky but it was the best chance we had. So we let him try, and Pete snuck toward it on tiptoes, making like he was a mime, big gestures for silence, teasing us—he wasn't worried, or maybe he was and trying to make sure we weren't. He'd do that all the time, joke to calm us down. But he wasn't that concerned, and neither were we.

He got close enough to the demon—it jumped in right next to him. He heaved the pack, but it bounced off the thing's chest, fell a couple of feet away. I thought Pete would either back off or go for the pack to try again, but he didn't. He froze, and then he collapsed.

I don't know what happened. It was like he fainted, but he wouldn't have. Peter didn't scare easy; he'd shout and he'd run if he needed to, but I've seen him go against things that would make a grown man wet his shorts—I almost have, a couple times—and Peter would face them, fight them, even talk back to them without breaking a sweat. But the moment he threw the pack he went down, and stayed down. After that—I don't know what Ray and Egon did. I ran for him. The pack was set to explode, not long after he let it go. And Pete wasn't holding onto it anymore, but he was lying right by it.

I didn't make it; the demon got there first. It hadn't noticed us, but it saw him, maybe because he was so close. It came forward, solid now—it didn't flicker once, but it was moving strangely even for a lizard, jerkily, like its muscles weren't coordinated right. Maybe it had hit the third rail, or maybe our throwers had gotten to it after all. It reached for Peter, and he didn't move. I shouted, but I couldn't use my thrower with it grabbing Peter, and I didn't know what else I could do. It yanked him up in its claws, and then it shook him, like you'd wring out a rag.

His head snapped back, and I heard the crack. So quiet, but it echoed in that tunnel. I'd rather go back to the jungles than hear that sound again—I'd take a knife to my ears if it would mean I'd stop hearing it.

Egon was behind me, holding back Ray—he was shouting something, and keeping Ray from charging, when he couldn't do anything against the demon. I don't think Egon heard, but he knew- -he might have felt it. I felt that sound, like someone stabbed me through. And Ray—even if he had heard, and seen, and felt it, he would have gone all the same, tried to save Peter even knowing it was too late. That's who Ray is. But Egon wouldn't let him go, couldn't let him go. And he was yelling at me, screaming his voice hoarse, but I didn't come. I froze, me, I know you won't believe it after everything in 'Nam, but that iron will you said I had, it rusted tight there. I couldn't move.

Until Peter—I don't know how he did it. I heard the bones snap. But he looked at me—his body hung limp in the demon's claws, but he lifted his head and shouted at me. I couldn't understand what he said, I don't know if it was because he was speaking wrong, or I was hearing wrong, but I couldn't understand. But I knew his tone, even if I didn't make out the words. He was telling me to get out of there.

It was your tone, Stu, the same one you had when you told us to run like hell, when we were ambushed on that march. And I listened to Pete, same as I listened to you. I didn't want to and yet I did what he said, like I did what you said. I turned and saw Egon wrestling with Ray, and I charged them both and dragged them back, because that's what Pete wanted. I didn't have to understand his words to know that much.

The explosion knocked us flat, and when we could see again the demon was gone. Egon's meter said there wasn't anything left of it but a little residual energy.

There wasn't much more of Peter. We had a burial anyway, today. It hurt. It hurt more than it did to bury my grandparents—it hurt more than it did to bury any of the guys from the war. Even you, Stu. We were buddies, best friends, and I swore after that I wouldn't see another friend die, not that way, not from anything except old age. I wasn't going to go through that again.

Well, this isn't the same. It's so much alike but it's different, it hurts differently. Losing you, my best friend—that was painful. But now I know what it's like to lose a brother.

I won't force the details on you. How bad the funeral was, or how many times Egon and Ray and I have tried to talk about continuing the business and haven't been able to get past his name, or what my dreams have been like lately. I've told you enough, more than you would want to know. And I have two friends who need me, more than you need a letter. This is my job; I've got to put away ghosts and save what's left. Make sure I keep it.

Good-bye, Stu. Felt good writing to you, it's been too long. Wish I could hear from you.

Your friend,

Zed

PS. If you ever run across a fast-talking wiseguy named Pete Venkman, tell him I said hi.

* * *
    
    
    Ray Stantz's Journal   
    

April 4, 19—

I can't believe it's been four days.

The funeral was today. It was huge. Even the Mayor came, with his wife. Everyone wore black, and some of Peter's old girlfriends' dresses were incredible; he would have loved to see them wearing them. Maybe he was watching; I don't think he would have missed it if he could have come, though there weren't any ghosts there, except for Slimer. Slimer has been very well-behaved, and at the funeral his slime was darker than normal and didn't glow at all. I wonder if it was a deliberate effect or an emotional response, and if that, was it his own emotions or a reflection of everyone else's?

Peter would want me to find out—he wouldn't care about it himself, but he'd want me to do something, keep busy. He knows I'm happier when I'm solving a problem, researching something interesting.

I don't think that's going to work now. But he'd want me to try.

The funeral was so large and formal that we had a smaller memorial before it, right after the wake, for people who really knew Peter, and hadn't just met him at a party or seen him on TV. Several people spoke at the funeral—I could have, but I didn't want to. Winston did, and he did a good job, but I can't remember what he said exactly.

Egon spoke at the memorial. It wasn't like his lectures, all written out and logically prepared. He stood in front of us and he just spoke, without notes or anything but thought. He talked about Peter, how they met, and how they met me, and how we started the Ghostbusters and hired Winston and Janine. He talked about Peter's dad— we still don't know where he is, or if he knows, but I think the funeral was mentioned on the national news, so maybe he'll find out. I wish we had been able to call him and tell him ourselves. I hope he comes and sees us, because I know how he loves Peter, and how upset he'll be.

Egon doesn't like Peter's dad, but he did say Charlie loved Peter. And he talked about Peter's mother, and how proud she had been of her son. He talked about other people, too, Peter's other friends, and his girlfriends, and the professors at Columbia who liked him and who hated him, and all the people he got in trouble with, and all the ones he helped. It wasn't a very long speech, but somehow he mentioned everyone who was there, and some who weren't but who were important, how they had all fit into Peter's life, how Peter had fit into their lives.

At the end he said, "I would not be who I was if Peter Venkman had never been born. I am not the same man for his death. He was the most stubborn man I have ever known, and the funniest, and the most obnoxious, and the most understanding. I know I will never meet his like again. I am grateful I met him, and grateful I knew him. When I mourn him now, I am mourning the loss, not of an acquaintance or a colleague, but of my closest friend. And for all the weight of grief, I am grateful for that friendship."

When Egon stopped, he was the only one there not crying. I had to wipe my eyes to see, and Winston covered his face with his hands, and Janine's mascara ran in dark rivulets down her cheeks. Egon sat down next to her, and put an arm around her shoulder and put his other hand over hers, folded in her lap. She took off her glasses and pressed her head against his sleeve, and her shoulders shook, though she was quiet. Everyone was quiet, but you could hear breaths catching in little sobs, and tears make their own sound when they fall. It's very soft but when there are so many you can hear them flow, and it makes you cry more. Egon's eyes stayed dry, though.

I think there's a pain so great you can't cry; I think something can hurt so much that tears won't come for it. I never wanted to know that, I never wanted to see it. But Egon's expression hasn't hardly changed in four days, not since we came back from that last bust, and Janine stood up from her desk and looked into our eyes and went all white. She put her arms around him then, and he cried then, we all did. But afterward Egon stood apart from Janine and his face went smooth and straight, like it does when he's talking to a scientist he respects but doesn't like. I've been watching him these past days and I haven't seen him relax from that, and neither has Winston or Janine.

I don't know what to do about it. Peter always could shake Egon out of this, no matter how bad he got. But we need to do it now without Peter, and I don't know how. I just know we have to.

Winston has tried to bring up ghostbusting a couple of times. We have to think about that, too, now that the funeral is over. We need Egon in order to make any decisions; he's part of this. I don't think he wants to think about it. I don't want to think about it, either. We've never busted without Peter—we wouldn't be Ghostbusters without Peter.

But he's not a Ghostbuster anymore. And we're going to have to decide if we still are.

I miss him, I always will.

I hope it doesn't always hurt this much. I think it might.

* * *
    
    
    Lab Notebook, Egon Spengler   
    4/6/--
    
    Notes and commentary on readings taken at the New York City    
    subway station at 23rd St. and 7th Ave. between 10:05 A.M. and    
    3:15 P.M., 3/31/--.
    
    There has been a week delay in the recording of this data due    
    to unforeseen circumstances resulting in a personal loss. Our    
    team has been reduced by one.
    
    The variation in biorhythmic intensity and proliferation is    
    possibly a result of Maxwell's corollary to Hubert's Theory of    
    Spirit Genesis and Termination, though the obvious relation to    
    Doyle's Principle of Ectoplasmic Integration should not be    
    overlooked.
    
    The abrupt cessation of the demon's spectral distortion    
    pattern and PKE signature may be due to the method of its    
    destruction; however, note that this does not explain the    
    spike in the multiverse wave of the sd pattern immediately    
    proceeding its destruction.
    
    The unusual fluctuation in the local spatiotemporal dynamic,    
    and the atypically high levels of tachyon particles measured    
    onsite, are currently unaccounted for. Further analysis must be    
    performed to determine the importance of these data; if they are    
    significantly different from the established or calculated norms,    
    alternate avenues of investigation should be explored.
    
    At the moment, I have no ideas for other angles of research. I    
    fail to see the purpose of exploring this further--the    
    advancement of knowledge. That is reason enough. It has to be. If    
    science doesn't matter, if knowledge doesn't matter, what does?

* * *
    
    
    Janine Melnitz's Diary   
    

_April 7, 19—_

_Egon broke down today. It had to happen; it's been too much for him. Too much for all of us. God, these entries are getting boring. Keep repeating everything, but I can't help it. It's like that at the firehall—I can't focus, on my work or anything. Neither can the guys, except for Egon. And maybe he's not; for all we know he's been playing solitaire on the computer all his time up in the lab. He didn't go there at all until yesterday, and then he closed the door and none of us saw him for the whole day._

_When I got to the firehall this morning he was already in there, and Ray said he had been for a couple of hours. They asked me to help with one of those little distracting projects we've been doing, to kill time, really, though they need to be done, and then Ray went upstairs. I would've followed but Winston was talking to me. I know what he was doing, trying to keep me away from Egon. Yes, he needs space, I'm not that insensitive, but he's been alone too much, and I would've stormed up there except Winston really did want to talk. And he knew that I needed to. He wanted to know if I still would work for them, if they went on with the business. I told him yes, of course. I don't know where else I'd go. I'm a Ghostbuster still, like them, even if it's different now._

_Winston kept looking at the stairs as we talked, and after I told him I wasn't going, not unless they made me, he finally gave up and we went up to the lab together. Ray was there but he wasn't talking, and Egon wasn't working. They were at the computer but Egon was turned away from the screen, and Ray was beside Egon with his arms around him._

_I've seen Ray upset before, in tears, practically hysterical, but I've never seen him look like that. So calm and so...sad. Not unhappy sad or sad depressed, more than that, more than feelings. More than just what he was inside—who he was. It was for Egon as much as for Peter, I think. And Egon was crying and crying, like he couldn't stop, like Ray had the night after the funeral. It was as if they had changed places; Ray was letting Egon cry his tears, and keeping Egon's composure so Egon could let it go himself._

_I should have been jealous, wishing I could hold Egon like that, that Egon would trust me like that, but I wasn't. I knew I couldn't—Ray was the only one who could touch him then and not be burned, because Ray's already burned. He can't hurt more than he does._

_Winston hugged me and we stood there, all four of us. It's quiet up in the lab, when there's nothing blowing up, it's high enough that when the windows are shut you hardly hear the traffic and you can forget you're in the city. You're just in this room, with three of your best friends, and that's when it's clearest what you've lost._

_We all talked afterward downstairs in the kitchen, and we're going to keep Ghostbusting, we decided. Winston said Peter would want that and it's true. Dr. V. whined all the time but I know how much he loved this job—as much as I do, because I complain as much. I yelled at the computer today when it lost a file and Ray kind of smiled when he helped me and I think things are going to be OK. I hope._

* * *
    
    
    Ray Stantz's Journal   
    

April 9, 19—

Today was busy.

We had our first bust. Yesterday I said it sounded like it would be easy, and it wasn't that difficult, but it was worse than we were expecting. Only two Class Five free-form nether entities, but they were faster than Slimer and more aggressive. And it was different, without Peter. He didn't miss many busts, and never a tricky one like this, and I never really thought about how much we relied on him. We're used to having four of us, of course, and we need four for some busts. Janine's going to come with us a lot more, she's already said so.

But it's not just that. It's not having _Peter_. He always would be there; whenever I got stuck somewhere he'd know and he'd be behind me, helping. He was the best one with a thrower; Winston's really good, but Peter could make a stream go around corners, practically.

I don't know what we're going to do on some busts, the ones when Peter talked to the ghost. We didn't need to on this one, but sometimes that's the best way to deal with a Class Three or Class Four. Helping them peacefully disperse is even better than trapping them, but I don't know how to do it. I like to talk to them but I don't understand them the way Peter did. It wasn't even the psychology; he'd say he just guessed but he always was right. I don't know if I can guess that accurately, and I don't think Egon or Winston will want to try. But we shouldn't trap every ghost, not if we can help them instead.

We just trapped these, though, and got covered in slime, but no one complained about it. When Winston got into Ecto he made a face and opened his mouth, but he closed it before he said anything.

When we came back to the firehall Peter's dad was there. He had only just arrived, and as soon as we pulled in he came over to us. He didn't even say hello, though usually he's more polite than that. He just asked us if it was true, if his son was dead; he asked each of us, as if he couldn't trust what we said. He asked Egon last, and Egon said yes. Like that, nothing else, but Egon didn't have that kind of annoyed look he usually gets when he talks to Peter's dad. And Charlie believed him, even if he hadn't believed Winston or me.

Janine made Mr. Venkman sit down, and Winston asked him to have dinner with us, and he's staying overnight. He looks awful—he said he hadn't found out until the day before yesterday, and I don't think he's slept since he heard. He was in Hawaii, he hasn't said why, but he told us a friend there caught the name Venkman on the news and mentioned it to him. I wish we had been able to call him. That must have been a terrible way to find out. There aren't any good ways, but that's one of the worst—the friend didn't even know if they were related. Charlie feels guilty about it, I think. I know how upset he is. Egon doesn't think Charlie was ever a good father, because of Christmas and everything. He's probably right, but Charlie did love Peter. Peter knew it, too, but I think he'd be surprised by his father now.

Egon is. I'm not, not really. I think I understand—Peter was the most important person in the world to Charlie, even if he didn't always act like he was. He was so proud of his son, for going to college and getting the doctorates and being a Ghostbuster. I think Charlie was so happy with how his son turned out that he was afraid he'd mess things up even more if he stayed around too much. But he hurt Peter by not visiting, and I don't know if Egon can forgive Charlie for that. It doesn't matter now, though. They both see that.

I remember what it was like when my parents died. They were the most important people to me. Because I was so young, I didn't know many people, and I loved them more than anyone else. And then they were gone, and I couldn't do anything, and I didn't even know why it happened—I knew how, I was old enough to understand about the accident, but I didn't know why. I still don't. It took me a while to learn to stop asking, though.

It's like that for Charlie, maybe. I have people I love now, but they're not my mom and dad. They can't be. No one and nothing can replace a parent, or a child. Charlie hasn't asked us yet, but I can see it in his eyes, questioning.

I know I shouldn't, but I keep asking myself, too. I don't want the answer and I know I won't get one. But I can't help it. Every night when we go to bed and there's only three beds in the bunkroom. Every day Egon closes the door of the lab, every time Janine bites her tongue on the sharp comments I know she's thinking, every effort Winston makes to keep everything going. Every memory I have that I almost wish I didn't, because they're of what can't happen again, ever, and I don't want them to be only memory. My heart asks it.

Why?

* * *
    
    
    Lab Notebook, Egon Spengler   
    4/14/--
    
    Speculation and follow-up to data from 3/31/--.
    
    As shown in yesterday's experiment, the spike in the spectral    
    distortion pattern was almost certainly a result of the demon's    
    travel from an alternate dimension. This is in keeping with the    
    majority of the demons we have encountered; few, if any, are    
    native to this universe/planet (ref. Ray's speculations on    
    origins of Hob Anagarok, 5/18/--). The spatiotemporal    
    fluctuations are as of now still unexplained; we have exhausted    
    most ideas, reasonable and unreasonable. Ray's mention of time    
    travel may not be so far-fetched, despite the contradiction to    
    Einsteinian physics; however, there are no methods by which this    
    hypothesis may be tested. I need a new viewpoint, a different way    
    of seeing. I am bound by the strictures and rigor of my    
    scientific training; the solution may lie outside the envelope,    
    as it were.
    
    Since college, I have never solved a difficult problem without    
    discussing it with Peter. Even when lacking the specific    
    knowledge, his insights were invaluable, the challenges he posed    
    forcing me to new directions in every dimension. I need that    
    provocation. I never took into account how much I depended on his    
    kibitzing to prick me into action; there was no need, when it    
    always was there.
    
    Regarding today's study of the primary source observations of    
    Dr. Raymond Stantz, Winston Zeddemore, and myself (see reports,    
    4/8). They agree without significant deviation, indicating that    
    our perceptions were uninfluenced, or if affected, that the    
    influence was of a directed, unitary nature [within the scope of    
    demonic ability; see Ray's commentary, 4/9].
    
    We saw the demon grab Peter Venkman, and the subsequent    
    explosion. All three reports state that he fell before the demon    
    touched him, and his collapse immediately succeeded his release    
    of the proton pack. None of us discerned the relation between    
    throwing the pack and Peter falling. Was there one? Logic implies    
    a high likelihood that there would be; none of us have imagined a    
    reasonable connection, however. I cannot see how his action could    
    have proven so harmful, unless he caused himself some injury.    
    Cardiac arrest? Unlikely, given his health and the low level of    
    exertion.
    
    I was some distance away, but I saw his face when he fell. He    
    looked neither hurt nor surprised. I have seen that moment in my    
    dreams every night for two weeks, and his expression remains    
    fixed in memory. It is that of a man already dead.
    
    Did Peter die because he left contact with the pack--is the    
    demon lethal in close proximity, an effect negated by the    
    radiation of a proton pack? As it was destroyed, future    
    observations are impossible, but should another of its kind    
    exist, we must understand its threat and have a feasible plan to    
    negate it. If we had known what we faced, the bust might have    
    gone differently. If Peter had not thrown the pack, would he have    
    lived? Would he have lived if he had been further from the demon,    
    or had it not grabbed him? If we had acted swiftly enough to hold    
    the demon back, if it had ignored him as it had previously    
    ignored us, if the pack had failed to explode...what would the    
    outcome have been?
    
    I must discuss these questions with Ray. We cannot afford to    
    ignore any possibilities; the danger is too extreme, should there    
    prove to be another such demon.
    
    If I had taken the pack instead, would he have lived?   
    

  


* * *

April 29, 19—

Ray,

Sorry about rushing off like this. Forgot all about it, but I promised I'd go last year. Ninety's a special birthday and we're not going to have much more time with Grandpappy. I know you said it's fine, but I didn't mean to leave you guys holding the bag. I'll be back day after tomorrow; wait for me for the Patterson bust, okay? Those gargoyles you talked about don't sound like a three man job (apologies to Janine).

Looking forward to seeing the family again; this is going to be quite a reunion. Wish you guys could come but I know someone needs to hold down the fort, the way we've been working this week. We all need a break. Tomorrow should be clear if you postpone Patterson; sleep in, go out to eat—we should be in the black for once, after yesterday's bonus. Get Egon out of the lab; you and Janine should be able to, if you gang up on him. He's been staying in there too long; you know what Pete'd do to us, if he found out. And I'm not sure he can't. You know how close that beam came yesterday; one more inch and it'd have taken your head off, homeboy. Miracles like that don't just happen. We have someone pulling for us in high places. And I can guess who, considering everything he did for us down here.

I can hear your questions now. Don't whip out the meter to make sure; think about it, Ray, but not like that. I know what I believe isn't the same as you and Egon, but nothing I've seen on this job or with the equipment has taught me any different. Peter's not with us, but that doesn't mean he's gone. And he hasn't forgotten about us, anymore than we've forgotten about him.

And I know this is all crazy, but I don't have time to erase it, plane's leaving in an hour, gotta run. Hope the bust went well, I'll be seeing you all in a couple of days.

Winston

PS. Make sure you try to get Egon out. We have to do something for him, soon, don't know what, but there's got to be a way to get through to him. If we don't, something is going to give, and it wouldn't be good. But we won't let that happen.

* * *
    
    
    Janine Melnitz's Diary   
    

_May 1, 19—_

_It's been a month._

_Why do I keep a diary? It's not like I'm famous, it's not like anybody's going to read it. I don't even read it. But I guess it anchors me in time. If I write it, it happened, right?_

_I wish it worked the other way. I'd burn these pages and everything they say wouldn't be real anymore._

_It's lonely at the firehall, with Winston away—he was supposed to be back tonight, but his plane was delayed. He's on a redeye flight now, should be here tomorrow morning. I hope he had a good time with his family._

_Charlie left New York this morning; he stopped by to say good-bye. He didn't tell us where he was going. I'm going to keep track if I can but I don't think he wants us to know. That worries me, but on the other hand I think it might be better that he's going. He's not like his son at all, usually, except occasionally he'll say something that sounds just like Peter, his tone, the words. Maybe it'll be easier without that reminder._

_Ray had a fight with Egon, after Charlie left. I yell at all of them, I've yelled at Egon a couple of times though he doesn't notice. But Ray doesn't, not usually. They were in the lab doing something with Slimer, I think it was Ray's project, and then I heard them shouting. Ray shouting. Egon didn't. Then Ray came downstairs and sat on Ecto's hood and put his hands over his face. He stayed that way and I wasn't sure what to do, Ray's not usually quiet like that, he wasn't sobbing or anything._

_After a little while I got scared and asked if he were all right, and he came over and took my hands and asked me to apologize to Egon. He said he was sorry again and again, but he was afraid Egon wouldn't listen if he said so, and you could see it was tearing him apart. I don't think it's true, that Egon wouldn't have listened, but I went up for him._

_Egon was in the lab like always. I don't know what he was working on, I don't think even Ray knows anymore. I told him what Ray said and I told him he better apologize too, because it was killing Ray, that it didn't seem like he was paying attention, that it didn't seem like he cared about any of us anymore. I think I said something like that. I can't remember. I was mad, and I was upset about Charlie and everything else._

_Egon went white, and he sat down on the lab stool like he'd forgotten how to stand. He was looking at the doorway but not at me—looking through me, and I know nothing interesting was behind me. He said he was sorry, like I had told him to, and asked me to get Ray so he could tell him so personally._

_So I did. Ray accepted the apology and they called back Slimer and got back to work on their project. I stayed at the door and watched for a while. Ray sort of told me what they were doing, and he sounded interested in it, but I wonder how well it's going. All they talked about was the flaws in their device._

_Maybe Winston can get them to talk about something else. Winston's had a few conversations with Egon. He knows what to say to get him to speak. It's been too quiet with him gone._

_I never seem to have anything to say to Egon anymore._

_It's very hard to love someone who's already dead._

* * *
    
    
    Ray Stantz's Journal   
    

May 15, 19—

On the bust today Egon didn't see the truck the Class 4 was manipulating until it was almost on top of him. If Janine hadn't knocked him out of the way he would have been hit. She nearly was. At least no one had to go to the hospital. Winston said we were just lucky.

We have to look out for Egon—I have to. I should know better. Peter always used to say that Spengs would walk in front of traffic to get a good reading.

We're not used to ghostbusting without Peter yet.

I have to be more careful. Winston can't watch all of us. Janine's doing very well but she's still learning some things. And she's a lot smaller than any of us; that matters sometimes. She's not as strong or as fast and it makes her so frustrated, but she keeps trying, whatever she has to do, and usually she does it. We couldn't work without her.

We're going to need to hire a new secretary. Janine can't take calls when she's on busts, though I think she'd rather be answering phones. She doesn't like getting slimed any more than Peter did.

I wonder where we're going to find someone as good as she is, who will put up with us and the hours and everything. We can't pay that much.

Janine hasn't been asking for a raise, though Winston said today she deserves one, if we could give it to her. We usually drive her home and pick her up, so at least she doesn't have to deal with the commute. I asked her if she'd move in with us, but she says she likes her apartment. There's no slime there, at least.

I don't think she's in love with Egon anymore.

Everything's falling into a routine, and that scares me, sort of. I don't want it to. Not like this...in some ways it's good, because it makes it easier, when you know what you're going to do when you get up in the morning. I still like to bust ghosts, it's still interesting, they're all so different. But it's not fun the way it used to be, and I miss it. We don't joke around very much. Winston teases me and Janine sometimes, and Janine still will come up with those outrageous insults. But Egon used to be really funny, in that weird way, in how he'd tell us things or how he'd react; he'd do it on purpose to make us laugh.

Peter used to be able to make him laugh. I haven't heard Egon laugh for a while. I miss that, too. I don't know if he can anymore.

He hasn't given up his analysis of that demon—my research hasn't turned up anything, and neither has his. If another demon like it comes, we'll need to know what it is, what it can do. But studying how Peter died...it hurts so much to think about it, but Egon won't stop. Can't stop. He doesn't know what he's looking for; he only wants the answer. He wants what happened to make sense. Even if it's scientifically explained, it still isn't going to make sense. Egon doesn't believe that, and I don't know how to tell him. But he's got to know it. He has to.

We have a bust tomorrow morning at the Erie Building. I'm going to be careful on this one.

* * *
    
    
    Lab Notebook, Egon Spengler   
    5/24/--
    
    Dreamed this morning, time, 8:09 A.M., awoke approximately    
    8:00, delayed reporting to recall & preserve as much as possible.    
    Record must be accurate.
    
    Was walking, in place--where? Location: dimness, fog, light.    
    Solid ground. Clarity of vision despite the mist. Destination    
    unclear/unknown--wandering? Can't remember. Shadows--which    
    direction did they fall? Indeterminate light source. Following an    
    unseen trail.
    
    I turned a corner down a hallway. My footsteps sounded on the    
    tile floor. Intent on a specific destination, my lab at Columbia.    
    I was convinced I had an urgent--assignment? Experiment?
    
    Someone was in the lab, working at my table. A figure, only a    
    dark silhouette. I could not identify it, yet I knew who it was.    
    Did not allow myself to believe, only stood in the door trying to    
    recall why I had come.
    
    Then he turned and I saw him clearly. Peter Venkman. He    
    grinned at me at first, started to walk over, speaking. "Hi,    
    Spengs. Fancy meeting you here."
    
    A meter away he stopped and told me, "You look like hell."
    
    The voice was right, the hair, the eyes, green. He wore his    
    uniform, the loose brown jumpsuit. No proton pack. His face was    
    smooth, slightly pale, living, expressive. His stance was casual,    
    arms at his side, head cocked, watching me. A little eagerly, a    
    little anxiously, not letting the anxiety show overtly but I    
    could read it in the set of his shoulders, the slight elevation    
    of his brow, all familiar gesture.
    
    I lunged forward and caught him, embraced him. He was real;    
    this was not an illusion, not a metamorph, not a disguise or a    
    trick. It was Peter. I saw him, touched him. I felt his chest    
    rise and fall as he breathed; his skin was warm. He was living.    
    He was alive.
    
    Physically he appeared uninjured, in good health. No    
    difference in age or weight, his condition identical to that    
    before the bust, clothes and body not burned or broken. He hugged    
    me tightly, then took me by my shoulders and pushed me back,    
    scrutinized my face. "God, Egon. You really do look terrible." He    
    did not conceal the distress in his voice then.
    
    I replied that he, on the other hand, looked remarkably fine    
    for a dead man. My voice broke when I said it.
    
    He did not seem surprised as much as sad. Regretful. Possibly    
    embarrassed? He squeezed my arm briefly, not as I gripped him to    
    confirm his existence, but to comfort me, a further reassurance    
    of his corporeality, his vital presence. "Yeah, about that," he    
    said. "It's..."
    
    He would have denied it, but hesitantly. Sidestepping a truth    
    he would rather not face, but acknowledging it all the same, a    
    most Peter-like trait. I would not let him; I told him we had    
    witnessed his death.
    
    He tensed, arms and shoulders stiffening; his hands remained    
    closed around my arms. In the low voice he uses only in private,    
    those occasional times when he is unsure, he apologized. Then he    
    said, "But I didn't, exactly."
    
    We were in the firehall--I believe we made the transition    
    without physically moving. Ecto-1 was there and we stood before    
    the main desk. Janine was not present; we were alone, and it was    
    silent, except for our voices. I may have forgotten a portion of    
    conversation, or we may not have reacted to this change.
    
    "You aren't dead?" I asked.
    
    "Yes and no," he said. "You've gotta have guessed that    
    already." He punched my arm lightly. "There's no way I'd just sit    
    on my butt in the afterlife and let you do this to yourself. If I    
    were really totally dead, you know I'd've come back and kicked    
    your ass by now."
    
    The words were quintessential Peter, his exact manner in their    
    relation. And he was not a ghost; he was as solid as I. Crossing    
    his arms, he seated himself on the corner of the desk, as he does    
    when speaking with a client. "Have faith in me, Egon. I'd have    
    come. If I got a one-way ticket I'd hitchhike back. I'm sure I    
    could've charmed some lovely young angel into giving me a lift."    
    He smiled what I once mentally tagged his courtier's smile. It    
    may be charming from the female perspective; I find it more    
    devious myself. Boyishly mischievous, perhaps he would say.
    
    "Then why didn't you?" I demanded. "If you were dead--if you    
    are not, what are you?" I took his arm and pressed my fingers to    
    his wrist; he didn't try to pull away. I felt his pulse    
    fluttering lightly against my fingertips, the blood pumping warm    
    beneath his skin,.
    
    I am afraid it was too much for me. "You can't be," I told    
    him, "you aren't alive, we saw you die. How can you be here?" I    
    did not realize it was a dream; it seemed so real. Even now it    
    remains vivid in my memory, not all of it, but everything    
    important. I can clearly recall the vibration of his living    
    heartbeat under my fingers. "You aren't a ghost--"
    
    Out of habit I reached for a PKE meter on my belt, but I do    
    not know if I indeed had one, because Peter grabbed my hand    
    before I could retrieve it. "No, I'm not a ghost," he said.    
    "You're dreaming, Spengs."
    
    I started in disbelief of that revelation, and he smiled, more    
    wry than humorously. He waved his other hand at our surroundings.    
    "Look where we are. Listen. Does this sound like downtown    
    Manhattan to you?"
    
    It was very quiet. And knowing it was a dream, our presences    
    there made more sense. I asked him, "Are you real? Is this my    
    imagination, or are you truly in my mind?"
    
    "Come on, Egon, you're a scientist." Peter shook his head.    
    "You know better than to ask if something's 'true.'"
    
    I kept looking at him, saying nothing; I have learned that    
    will get me answers on occasion. He sighed. "I'm here. That's all    
    I can tell you 'cause that's all I know. Maybe I'm an astral    
    projection, some kind of a psychic ghost. Maybe it's me from    
    another time or place, reaching forward or backward or whatever    
    to you because you reached out to me. Or maybe I'm just your    
    subconscious getting you to listen up--I think I'm me, but you    
    know Peter Venkman well enough to give a mental construct of him    
    the same ego as the genuine article."
    
    I couldn't help but smile at that. Peter's humor is not always    
    as obvious or crude as he would have many believe. And I knew it    
    was him, however it could be.
    
    He grinned back, and I could see something ease in his eyes as    
    he observed me. "Now you want to know why I'm here," he    
    concluded.
    
    I told him I didn't care. I didn't. Perhaps I should have, but    
    that he was there was enough.
    
    "Scientists are always supposed to be curious--you're breaking    
    the stereotype," he teased. "Watch it, Spengs, they'll get you    
    for that." He glanced around the entryway, kicked his boot    
    against Janine's desk once and contemplated the sound. "I'm    
    supposed to be here," he said. "I belong here."
    
    Before I could agree he pushed himself off the desk and strode    
    forward, and then we were in the subway station, the location of    
    the demon bust. It was repaired as it is in reality; it looked as    
    it did when I took the 5/11 readings.
    
    This time I was consciously aware of the transition, but again    
    it did not surprise me and neither of us saw fit to comment upon    
    it. Peter, walking along the tracks, hopped over the third rail    
    and returned to where I stood. He looked back down the tunnel and    
    quietly remarked, "I shouldn't have died here."
    
    "No," I answered. As I had for a moment when there two weeks    
    ago, I experienced a brief but graphic flashback to the bust and    
    its aftermath. I could hear Ray's shout in my mind, and smell the    
    smoke. Though dreaming, I found it difficult to catch my breath    
    and felt light-headed. As I had when actually there, I crouched    
    and put my head between my knees; this time Peter was beside me,    
    resting his hand on my back, helping me stand when the dizziness    
    had passed.
    
    "I'm sorry," he said. "I can't say I'm thrilled to be back    
    myself. But that's just it--I shouldn't have been here at all.    
    None of us should have. That demon shouldn't have come."
    
    When I would have protested that it had all the same, he shook    
    his head sharply. For several seconds his eyes searched my face,    
    and then, abruptly, he grinned again. "Can read you like a book,    
    Egon."
    
    "You always could," I admitted.
    
    "Whatever happens--you did your best and then some. Don't    
    think I don't know that." He clasped my shoulder for a moment,    
    gave me a small shake. "And you've got Ray and Winston, not to    
    mention Janine. They're all okay."
    
    His inflection was that of a statement but his eyes made it a    
    question. I acknowledged that they were all right--physically at    
    least not a lie--and found myself adding, "As is Slimer..."
    
    He groaned with simultaneous annoyance and amusement, a    
    peculiarly Venkman sound. But looking down the dark tunnel once    
    more sobered him; he was serious when he said, "I'll see you all    
    sometime, don't ever doubt that. We'll be together again,    
    eventually. Dr. Venkman promises."
    
    I couldn't prevent the shudder that passed through me; I spoke    
    to remind myself as much as him, "You have died."
    
    For a long moment he continued to stare into the tunnel; then,    
    with an edge of a smile, he turned back to me and shook his head    
    again. "It wasn't my time," he said. "Not then, not here.
    
    "Something went wrong, Spengs. You've been trying to figure    
    the demon out, and having trouble--because it didn't belong here.    
    I'm not supposed to be dead, but I'm not alive, either. I don't    
    know what I am, where I am. My paperwork got misfiled; I fell    
    through the cracks. Somebody screwed up, big time, but maybe you    
    can change it."
    
    "How?" I could barely ask it. I told him I had tried, or began    
    to tell him.
    
    He cut me off again, cupped his hand around the back of my    
    neck and squeezed. "You'll get it," he said. "I know what you and    
    Ray can do. I'm just here to tell you that you can. The demon    
    broke the rules; it wasn't playing fair. But we can, and we can    
    win--remember Winston's baseball game?"
    
    I did. Then we had been unaware we were playing for Peter's    
    soul; now we are playing for his life, and I had not realized it.    
    But I see now, I understand. I understand. The demon broke the    
    rules because its rules were different; why didn't I discern it    
    before?
    
    I began to comprehend in the dream. Not until I awoke did I    
    grasp all the ramifications--but what Peter said was enough. It    
    sent me down a different track, the one we need to follow. I    
    understood, and stared at him, saw him living in my dream, as it    
    should be in waking. "You shouldn't have died--"
    
    He nodded. "It's not your fault. Not anyone's. You've done    
    everything you could, I know you have. But this is different--you    
    have to remember, when you wake up. You have to wake up--"
    
    "Not yet," I begged.
    
    "You have to," he insisted. "If you sleep through the end of a    
    dream you forget it--you gotta wake up in the middle to keep any    
    of it. You have to wake up now, so you don't forget."
    
    I didn't want to leave; I wanted to stay, at least until the    
    dream had ended. For longer, if I could have; though I knew he    
    was correct, the temptation to linger was strong.
    
    "Don't, Egon." He made shooing motions at me. "Go on, get.    
    You've got more important things to do than hang around with a    
    figment of your overactive intellect."
    
    "I believe it is really you," I said to him. "I don't think I    
    could have imagined you so thoroughly."
    
    "I've got more faith in your imagination," he replied. "But    
    thanks."
    
    I told him, "I've missed you."
    
    "I've missed me," he said flippantly, then closed his eyes and    
    whispered, "I miss you. I miss all of you." He wrapped his arms    
    around me and squeezed hard, as I had done to him initially. "You    
    take care of them, Egon," he told me. "And take care of    
    yourself." His arms tightened around me. "Now wake up."
    
    I did, and could not return to the dream when I closed my eyes    
    again. But though lost to my unconscious, it was still definite    
    in my mind, and I made certain to relegate it to long-term memory    
    before recording it here. A preliminary scan detected no    
    significant PKE measurements, though a signal could have faded or    
    been too small to pick up with a standard instrument; the    
    distinctness and unusual quality of the dream lends    
    verisimilitude to a possible external causation. And as Peter    
    said, it doesn't matter if his presence was real in the    
    scientific sense--what he told me was true.
    
    I must relate this to Ray immediately so that he may check the    
    accuracy of my hypothesis, as I am unable to be objective about    
    it. My hands are shaking, making further typing difficult. This    
    report will be continued.   
    

  


* * *
    
    
    Ray Stantz's Journal   
    

May 24, 19—

I don't know what to do. Egon wants me to believe, he started explaining it to me and he thinks it's true, is almost convinced it's true, and he wants me to believe it. He wants me to believe it so he knows that he's not just fooling himself. But what if he is? I read his report of his dream. It sounds so real. But I've had dreams too, and they've seemed so real, but I knew they weren't. I used to dream my parents were alive again, all the time when I was little. Sometimes I'd wake up and I'd forget they weren't.

Last week I woke up and I thought Peter would be in the bed across from mine, but when I looked there was only empty space. We took out his bed a while ago. For that minute I didn't remember at all, though.

But I woke up and realized it wasn't true. Egon's not waking up. I can't tell if it's because he's already awake, or because he doesn't want to wake up, or because he can't. If he can't...

I was hoping this wouldn't happen. I haven't told Winston yet. This evening I'll tell him, after I give Egon a chance to explain everything. Maybe prove it. I didn't think things could get any worse. I don't know if I can take this.

* * *
    
    
    Ray Stantz's Journal   
    

May 25, 19—

It's true, it's true, I should've seen it, we should've seen it, it's so **obvious**! Right away when we saw the elevated readings of tachyon particles we should have guessed, it's the only thing that made sense. Egon said it didn't make sense and it wasn't but it did, we were only looking at it wrong.

We know what to do now though, I don't know if we can but I think we could, we've got lots of ideas, we've spent a while coming up with them—what time is it now? It was dawn a few hours ago. Oh, it's after one PM, that's why I'm hungry.

I don't know if I can eat because my stomach feels kind of full already even though it's empty and besides if Janine says something funny I might laugh and get OJ up my nose and that hurts. Egon smiled, when I realized it last night, when I looked at everything he showed me and it made sense and I saw, like he had seen. It comes on you suddenly, not like a lightbulb, it's like a blow to the head that makes you see stars, or the way a subatomic particle changes coordinates. One minute it's there and then it's here, and everything's obvious. I started laughing, it was pretty late and I'd been trying so hard to understand because I wanted to understand, I wanted to believe, and then I could and it was so beautiful, it was the best thing, it was better than busting. I laughed and Egon grinned, like I'd said something really witty instead of just cracking up. We have to start the experiments right away.

It's possible. It really is. I believe it. And it was so obvious. I should've known right away. Merlin was half-demon, and he was this way; that's in several legends, not just T.H. White's.

Now we can do something about it. We're going to have to break all the rules and rewrite some basic scientific principles, and figure out how to do what we couldn't do before and do some stuff that no one's even tried before, and we'll have to stay up late and get up early and bust lots of hard ghosts to have enough money.

It's going to be great!

* * *
    
    
    Letter to Stuart Clay   
    

May 27, 19—

Dear Stu,

Here I go again, writing to a guy dead for a couple decades. But I need to get things straight and maybe writing them down will help. I'd write my family or a friend, except that they'd think I was crazy, and they wouldn't understand any of this. I don't know if I do myself. I'd give it to Egon or Ray but they might not understand, either.

I think Egon's lost it—or I would, except Ray believes too. For all his optimism and his eagerness and those times he acts like a little kid, I think Ray has a firmer grasp on reality. Now, anyway. And Ray believes this is possible. If they're right, if it is...my God.

Actually, I don't know how religion would account for this. Maybe I should send this letter to my pastor. Egon keeps saying it violates the fundamental laws of the universe, as if he's proud. You'd think that would make any scientist uneasy, but that never occurs to Ray or Egon, to be disturbed by finding out everything they know is wrong. And it's different now anyway. Everything is.

This morning we drove out to an empty lot in Yonkers that my dad's company is contracted to level. Egon and Ray needed the space for an experiment. Good thing they didn't try it in the lab—they detonated a pack, two, actually. That lot's about as level as it's going to get, though Dad will have to bulldoze the crater. Egon and Ray were satisfied, though. They took readings from all angles, got back to the lab and fed the numbers into their computer. Then they hollered for me and Janine.

They've been working nonstop for the past couple of days, so busy that they haven't even had a chance to explain what they're doing, and it's pointless to try to ask when they're like that. I guessed what it had to do with—who it had to do with. I knew, really, because of how Egon was going at it, when nothing else has hardly interested him at all in the last two months.

This, though, wasn't what I was expecting. If what I understand is right, it's a whole hell of a lot better than I ever could have hoped for. Ray spent a while trying to make it clear to Janine and me. He talked for almost three hours straight—he was going so fast he had to say everything two or three times before it made sense. He showed us computer readouts and drew pictures, and I might not have all the science, but I've got the gist.

The demon lives backwards. That's the first thing Ray told us. Lives, not lived, because it's still alive. We might have destroyed it; the proton detonation might have killed it. But from our point of view, that destruction was its birth.

Like most of the demons it's from another dimension, but not the Netherworld this time. Egon calls it a "perpendicular versotemporal universe," or a reverse universe—its timestream goes at a 180 to ours. When we had our Big Bang, that universe was dying or already gone; when our universe finally goes, theirs will be just beginning. The demon's like its universe, and it's powerful. If we traveled to its universe our time might start going in that direction—we'd come back before we left. But when the demon came into our world, it kept going the way it was used to. Living backward.

This is where it starts to get hairy. When we arrived at the subway station, the demon had already been hit—we had already blown it up. If our proton streams did anything to it, they only affected it until we blasted it—then it was like we hadn't hit it, almost like we were healing it. But Egon and Ray aren't sure our streams did much to it anyway; mostly it was the blast. When we went into the station, the demon was dying. Maybe it was dead before anyone saw it, or maybe it had gone back to its universe. The flickering in and out it was doing when we first got there was probably it trying to go home. It didn't arrive—the way it saw things—until after we did. Until the pack went off.

Apparently the energy from the pack's accelerator is enough to counteract the demon's timestream. While we wore the packs, we stayed in our own time, even when we were in its field of influence. But when Peter threw his away, when he was so close to the demon, he started going in its time.

That's why he fell. Because the demon had already attacked him; he was already dead, or dying. We thought we saw the demon picking him up; we actually saw the demon dropping him. When it approached him it was really backing away. Retreating from the blast, but it had already been hurt, maybe lethally. It attacked Peter because it was dying, like a grizzly mauls the hunter who doesn't take it down with his first shot.

Peter wasn't burned when the demon had him. Ray said that's because of the nature of the explosion—when the pack detonated, everything went in our time. The demon didn't, but the demon wasn't there. It had left, or it had come, depending on what way you look at it.

According to Ray and Egon, the reason it came at all was because of the pack. We've overloaded the packs to close crossrips before, but this time the explosion ripped one open. Egon would have explained just how, but Ray stopped him; I think he saw Janine's and my eyes crossing. It has to do with the nature of the other universe, why he called it perpendicular; it's passing at right angles to ours, and we happen to be in an intersection point, our timeline and their backward one, and so the fabrics between our separate continuums are weakened—I don't get it and I don't need to. I trust them with that kind of information. But it looks like we did it—Egon would say it's his fault, but if he didn't have any idea he can't be responsible. It's not an issue of blame; it's just cause and effect. If we hadn't been called, if they hadn't set a pack to destroy the demon, if Peter hadn't thrown it—

Except if he hadn't and they hadn't and we hadn't, then the demon wouldn't have been there at all. And then we wouldn't have been called, etc. But we were, and that's what happened, and I don't know if it's circular logic or cosmic irony.

That's not the crazy part, though. The crazy part is what this all means.

The demon's living backwards, right? It's in its own dimension now, living its life, not about to enter our world for another couple of months. But what if it weren't there? If it were destroyed now, our now—then two months ago it wouldn't have been there. It couldn't come through the gate we accidentally created.

It couldn't kill Peter. What happened two months ago in that subway station, that bust going so bad, won't have occurred at all, if we can destroy the demon now.

Crazy, like I said. We're talking about rewriting history. We changed it before, I know, with the Ghosts of Christmas, but that was an accident we had to put right. This is different; this time we're talking about putting right something that's already gone wrong. Egon and Ray are saying that _we're_ the wrong time. That this isn't the way things should be.

Hell, I knew that already. But that's a judgment of the heart, not of science.

A long time ago, when I was a little kid, my mother told me that God doesn't make mistakes. He knows too much for that. And there are no accidents, not with the universe in his hands. So what is this? An oversight? Just a hiccup in the space-time continuum, like Ray said? Maybe it's a test, I don't know of what. Of science, or of us, or of what we do. Or maybe something else entirely.

Can I believe what Ray told us? Even if I do, I don't know if it's in God's plan to change this. But I'm still praying to Him every night to make it true. What does it mean, why did this happen? I'd ask, but it's not important. Not if we can make it right.

Winston

* * *
    
    
    Janine Melnitz's Diary   
    

_June 2, 19—_

_They're still at it. Today Winston and I went on a bust alone—just a Class 3, nothing fancy, but we would've gotten less slime on us if the damn ghost had had more people to aim for. But Ray and Egon have another round of experiments going and they couldn't leave them alone for fifteen minutes, like they haven't been able to for the last week._

_And I still don't know if I buy it, even when they're convinced. It's so out there—they say they've found the other world, their perpendicular universe. But they haven't found the demon and they haven't had any luck tearing another hole. Every pack they blow up is another $20,000 plus down the drain, and they're not any closer. Which is why we have to keep busting. Ray's taking out loans like you wouldn't believe, and he can't keep track of money the way Peter could— he says it doesn't matter, because when they "fix" everything he won't be owing anything, because this won't have happened. And he'd do it anyway, of course, for Peter. It's not really that much to pay, just money. It could get us in trouble later, I think. But I'm not sure of anything now._

_Egon's not sleeping at all anymore, and Ray's no help whatsoever. They take turns napping on the lab couch, and that's only because eventually one of them collapses or because Winston or I drag them there. We did force them both to bed a couple nights ago, but fat chance we can do that again anytime soon. Especially with the problems they've been having with their experiments. Every day Ray's quieter, and Egon loses a little more of that life I saw in his eyes again, the day they told Winston and me what was going on._

_Sometimes I think I hate Peter. For leaving us, for what it's done to Egon, for what it's driving him and Ray to now. But then I remember what it was like before, the four of them going on busts and playing practical jokes on each other. When Egon, Winston, and Ray would gang up to keep Peter from blasting Slimer. When Peter would fight with me, or flirt, we never figured out what we were doing, really. When the firehall was my home, and this apartment was just where I slept and kept stuff that wouldn't fit there._

_And they're right. It's worth it all, to get that back._

* * *
    
    
    Ray Stantz's Journal   
    

June 5, 19—

We're going to get it, I know we are. We just have to keep trying. We're finding out more every day; we've gotten tons of readings from the perpendicular universe, and I'm sure the signature we picked up yesterday was the demon. It's there, it's right there, we just have to figure out how to get it here.

Once we do this right, then we have to make sure it doesn't happen again. I think it might be possible—we just have to let us know. The other us's, I mean, from the new timeline, the right timeline. If Egon and I know what could happen, then we could adjust the packs so they won't cause another fissure when they detonate. We might be able to do more, too—if we can get the UT disseminator on it right away, as soon as the other universe enters convergence with ours, then we could close the connection, cut it off entirely from us. It's too late to do that now, since a rift already has been opened in this world. But if we don't open any rift and strengthen the division between the universes, then we'll set that timeline and erase the last traces of this one. Keep it from ever happening again.

We just need to let the other we's know. I know how, too, I think. If we send them a signal—I mean, send us a signal—then Egon, the other Egon, could use the transchronovisuoscope, he'd be smart enough to think of that. All he'd have to do is put in his lab notebook and see what the alternate Egon, our Egon now, was writing on those pages and he'd understand. I'd put in my journal too. We'd read them and figure out what happened and then we'd know what to do. How to fix things permanently. But we can't yet, they can't, because they don't exist yet. We're the only ones who exist. We have to make them real and then we'll be theoretical, until they set things and then we won't be at all.

I'm starting to understand why Winston says thinking about this gives him migraines. I'm going to check with Egon, and if he agrees we can adjust the next pack to emit a few ordered tachyon bursts when we detonate it tomorrow. That should be enough to alert them, and they'll catch on fast; Egon's smart in any time. Then we'll just have to make those other selves real, and I know we can.

* * *
    
    
    Lab Notebook, Egon Spengler   
    6/7/--
    
    Success of test scenarios:   
    Hypothesis I, 5/30: negative.   
    Hypothesis II, 5/31: negative.   
    Hypothesis III, 6/2: negative (a spectacular failure, given   
      the theoretically innocuous molecular aggregation and    
      the dimensions of the actual blast.)   
    Hypothesis IV, 6/4: negative.   
    Hypothesis V, 6/4: negative.   
    Hypothesis VI, 6/6: negative.
    
    The latest results prove sub-hypothesis VI-a, regarding the    
    intersections of the universes, to be all too true. The    
    versotemporal universe is diverging from our own once more. Our    
    latest estimate is a week at most (d-day 6/14/--). If we do not    
    find the solution by then, there will be no solution. The demon's    
    universe will no longer be accessible; therefore we will have no    
    way of reaching the demon.
    
    Ray suggests that eventually the two universes may converge    
    again, a possibility, considering the curvilinear nature of the    
    supra-dimension. But we will have no way of predicting when that    
    would take place, nor do we know the lifespan of the demon. If it    
    is dead, or rather has not yet been born, when the universes    
    again intersect, then any attempts to destroy it would be    
    pointless. The proper time will have passed here, not yet arrived    
    there. We must find the answer now, summon the demon and destroy    
    it. Ray's idea of alerting our alternate selves about this    
    timeline is feasible, but their ability to prevent its occurrence    
    is absolutely dependent upon our success now.
    
    It should have come. Yesterday's detonation precisely repeated    
    every possible causation variable from the original appearance,    
    down to the location at the station and the presence of our    
    biorhythms. We detected the demon's readings, and yet it did not    
    cross into this dimension.
    
    It should have come, and yet one crucial piece eludes us, the    
    final fragment of the key to turn this lock, the last syllable to    
    complete the spell, the ultimate stroke of the brush by which a    
    masterpiece is changed from a canvas to history. The necessary    
    detail is obscured, and I am a fool, stupid and blind, unable to    
    see. Everything I have learned, all the knowledge I possess, has    
    not cracked this code. The longer I stare at the numbers the less    
    sense they make-- regardless of how closely I watch them, once    
    written they won't change without an eraser or a delete key.    
    Peter told me that once.
    
    In my dream he told me not to blame myself. In my dream he    
    said I had done my best. He understood so much, and yet he didn't    
    see what was most important. I have failed, the time it mattered    
    most. Everything I have ever done means nothing, if I cannot do    
    this.   
    

  


* * *
    
    
    Janine Melnitz's diary   
    

_June 8, 19—_

_Winston knows the answer. He told me today—he saw it today. He was upstairs, with Egon and Ray going at it yet again. It's like watching people throwing themselves against a brick wall. I couldn't stand it—I can't; I don't know how they can, not knowing if anything they do is going to work, but they still keep trying and trying and trying, and nothing comes of it. I always hated it in high school when science experiments never went the way the book said they should. I hated this._

_Winston was watching them, and then he came down, and I thought he was going to fall on the stairs, he was holding onto the railing like he needed it for balance. He sat down hard on the last step; I hurried over and he stared at me, his eyes were all round. "I know what they've got wrong," he said, kind of a whisper only raspy, like he was trying to get his vocal chords into the action but they weren't playing along. "I realized what they aren't seeing," he said, "and I know why they aren't, because they don't want to see it. It's too obvious, they should have tried it already, but they can't. If I'm right, though...I don't know what it'll mean, if I'm right."_

_Then he told me what he thought of. And it's it, it has to be. They've examined every aspect, they've got all the variables straight. All but one. The most important one, the most important thing that happened._

_Peter died in the blast before. Egon and Ray know that, of course they know it, but if they haven't considered it all the way..._

_Like Winston, I don't know what it'll mean. But we have to tell them, if there's any chance that's it, what they've been looking for...maybe he's wrong. Maybe it's something else, not related to dying at all, and they'll find it._

_I wasn't scared when they told us what was going on, and what they were going to try to do. I understood it, how we're not going to be the same anymore, if it works, how everything's going to change. That doesn't frighten me. This..._

_Winston might be wrong. But I don't think he is._

* * *
    
    
    Ray Stantz's Journal   
    

June 9, 19—

Winston's right. And Egon's wrong, we can't reproduce it, not with the packs or the meters or the throwers or anything else. We don't even know what it is, that change, when biorhythms transform into spectral activity, when things die. No one knows. We're Ghostbusters, we deal with ghosts every day, and we've seen death before, all of us. But we only observe it, we don't understand it, exactly what happens when a person's alive and then they're not.

Maybe the demon was attracted to that change. Maybe it sensed the life in the center of the rip, right in the heart of the detonation, and it came to that because it wanted it, or because it thought it was safe, or something else entirely. But that's why it came. And it won't come again unless it senses that again, but that signal's not something we can just replicate, not now, we might never be able to.

It's okay, though. We know how to bring the demon now, and we will.

* * *
    
    
    Lab Notebook, Egon Spengler   
    6/11/19--
    
    It's logical. We have discussed it the entire day. It's    
    logical.
    
    We can't all make the attempt. To go out in a blaze of glory,    
    together, as we have almost done several times--it has a certain    
    romantic appeal. On some level I believe we would all prefer    
    that. But it is impractical; if the attempt fails, what then?
    
    It must be a scientist. That I concede as well, over Winston's    
    vocal protests. The pack must be precisely set; if the    
    interactions of biorhythms with the energy fluctuations of the    
    forming gate [collapsing, on the versotemporal side] affect the    
    pack's frequencies, it must be reset, and quickly, else the    
    attempt be futile. Only Raymond and I have the essential    
    expertise. There would not be time to train Winston or Janine,    
    though their objections have been noted and logged.
    
    I am the more educated and experienced in temporal physics. If    
    our final attempts now should fail, I am the most likely    
    candidate to devise another solution. It may be possible to    
    repair this damage even after the universes have diverged, though    
    I currently do not see any way.
    
    All this is logical; that does not mean it is the correct    
    solution. Ray denies that my own plan has any feasibility, but he    
    admits that I have the greater expertise in this area. We will    
    follow my proposal. The emitter should produce a strong enough    
    signal to simulate biorhythms; the cessation of that signal due    
    to the explosion may approximate whatever the demon is seeking.    
    That today's experiment produced negative results does not    
    guarantee failure. We are fast running out of time and proton    
    packs, but there is still a chance.
    
    I cannot allow the alternative. It is logical. I cannot allow    
    it. If we are wrong...if we are right... Oh God, Ray, don't make    
    me choose. Peter's life for yours. I cannot make that choice. I    
    could never make that choice.   
    

  


* * *

June 13, 19—

My confession. To myself. To God. To anyone who reads it.

Not us. Not if Ray and Egon are right, because tomorrow everything changes, tomorrow we go back to the way things should be, and this won't even be a memory. If they're right.

I believe they're right. I have to.

If you sin, but then it never happened, does it still count on your soul? What if you don't remember it? Time heals all wounds, isn't that how it goes—and we're healing time. Same thing. Is it? When I was a boy, Pastor Grey, he was the most liberal churchman I knew, and he said a sin's a sin in God's eyes when it's a sin in your own heart. You can't do evil if you don't know it. But I never decided if I believed that—a psychotic killer's still a murderer, even if they didn't know better.

I know better. What's the punishment for someone who lets a friend die? But if I don't...damned either way.

Ray trusts me. He wouldn't have told me if he didn't. And he convinced me, enough. Tomorrow...almost today. I'm not sleeping tonight. If this goes wrong, if this doesn't work, I'm never going to sleep a full night again. Tomorrow, a little after the sun comes up, we're driving out to the subway station, all four of us. We're going to set up the packs—two packs, detonating one after the other. The first one to destroy the demon completely, the second to bring it here to be destroyed.

That makes perfect sense to me now. Maybe that should worry me. But I'm more worried about what happens tomorrow, after the first pack blows. We might see the demon; the readings will tell us if it comes, anyway.

If it doesn't come, we're in trouble. According to Ray and Egon, after tomorrow we won't have another chance; that other backwards universe will be too far away to get to. Egon and Ray still might find a way, it's possible. They both say that, but neither of them believes it.

But it's going to work tomorrow. Ray knows it will. The demon's going to be there. The pack will destroy it. And then, so the demon will come, Ray's going to take the other pack, and adjust it the way it needs to be, and set it off.

I got him to show me what adjustments might need to be made. He's right, I couldn't make them, I wouldn't have any idea how, but Ray can do it okay. He's not worried. He's excited. He knows this is going to work. When it does, I just need to stand back. That's all. Not do anything, just watch. It won't last long. I might not even realize it's happening, Ray says. With the pack he should be stabilized in time long enough to do what he needs to, but there aren't enough packs left for us all to have one. It'll be over, it'll all be over, every day of the last two and a half months. I want that. Not at this price, though.

It's not as if I'd be able to stop him. I know Ray too well for that. He's going to do this, no matter what I say. If I told Egon...Egon couldn't do anything either. It doesn't make it right.

I know what I'm doing. I'm choosing to do it of my own free will. Tomorrow I'm going to stand back and believe in my friend. Egon doesn't know; he can't be held accountable. Janine's innocent too. Ray's only told me. I know what he's going to do, but I'm not saying anything, not until after it's over, if there is an after. For what it's worth, I believe I'm doing the right thing. God help me.

Winston Zeddemore

* * *
    
    
    Ray Stantz's Journal   
    

June 13, 19—

I'm sorry, Egon.

Winston's going to show this to you, if it doesn't work tomorrow. You can read everything in my journal, I don't mind. But I don't think you will—well, maybe you will. The real you, when he finds out, I'll let him read this. He might need to know.

You know what I'm going to do. What I did, if you're reading it afterward. If it didn't work, you have to keep trying. If there's another way you'll find it.

Don't blame yourself. I know you won't blame anyone else, but that'd be even worse, to blame yourself. I'm the one who did it. If it doesn't work, then I know how you're going to feel and I'm so sorry. There wasn't any other way, though, and you know we had to try. If we didn't...it'd be worse. So there isn't a choice, really. I know you wanted there to be one but there isn't. Sometimes things are like that. Peter always said I was the optimist of our team, but I'm also a scientist. There's lots that I don't understand, but there's a lot that I do.

You can't give up, that's the only thing I'm worried about. If something goes wrong and this doesn't work, you'll find another way to do it. Winston and Janine will help you. They won't give up, and you can't either. You've got all the reports and notes and readouts—don't study them too hard, though. Use your intuition too, and get help if you can. There's lots of brilliant physicists and other scientists, and even though they're not as smart as you they might be able to help.

And if there isn't a way—it's not your fault. I don't know how to tell you that to make sure you understand, but it's true, you've got to believe it. That's the most important thing. Shit happens, Peter was right about that. But you and Winston and Janine will still be there. There's good stuff even when everything seems bad, you only have to remember to look for it. You'll find it when you do. It's not all in the past, either—there's lots in the future. There always is. Just wait for it.

But I know this is going to work. I wouldn't do it if I didn't. And it's worth it.

I love you, Egon; I love you, Winston; I love you, Janine. I love you, Peter. I'll see you soon.

 

* * *

 
    
    
    6/14/--
    
    I'm typing. I'm typing! See? A quick brown fox jumps over Zuul    
    the Terror Dog. And I didn't even look at my hands.
    
    What--damn, I did miss the y. Zuul the terror doggy. Excuse    
    me. So you just want me to write down what I remember?
    
    Because you told me to.
    
    You said you wanted this to be a complete report.
    
    Yeah, I can interpret that as typing everything I say. I can    
    interpret it as typing everything you say, too, if you want--   
    should we get Janine to take dictation?
    
    Don't worry, Spengs, I can be a lot more difficult than this.
    
    Yeah, I kind of thought you knew that already.
    
    OK, OK, the dream. Don't give me that; I'm not the only one    
    acting juvenile around here. You've been fixated on that screen    
    like you've discovered the cross-dimensional playboy channel. Not    
    to mention practically slamming the door on my nose, after    
    dragging everyone else up here the past few days to see the stuff    
    on your whatsiscope.
    
    The transchon--you expect me to spell that? Forget it. But    
    come on, you've even had Janine checking it out. I'm surprised    
    you haven't gotten the spud in here; he's semi-literate, after    
    all. I'm starting to feel left out. Is it really that bad? What,    
    does Ray become a harlequin romance writer in another timeline?
    
    No, I doubted it too. Would explain the way he went tearing    
    out of bed when your thingamabob squawked this morning, though.    
    And then this afternoon you and him were all over the universal    
    tele-gizmo in the corner. What's up with that? Planning another    
    vacation in the Netherworld? Is this something I even want to    
    know about?
    
    Well, yeah, Egon, actually I do. If Gozer's second cousin is    
    coming through tomorrow, that's the kind of thing I might like to    
    know. If you guys had seen your faces, you'd be worried, too; you    
    haven't looked that hot under the collar since Slimer swallowed    
    your twenty-year-old Puerto Rican spore. So what's on the    
    supernatural horizon? Cloudy, expect light showers, followed by    
    partial sun and a forty percent chance of Armageddon?
    
    Glad to hear it. What were you closing?
    
    A versotempgfgfhlgftmlcgf--I'm sorry I asked. As long as it    
    worked. Now why were you closing it? The particulars. I want full    
    technicolor detail, Egon. You said once you put the fragments    
    you've been picking up into "some semblance of a cohesive    
    pattern," you'd spill the beans.
    
    All right, I'll record the dream. As soon as I've got it    
    reported all nice and objectively, then you'll tell me what's    
    been going on, is that a promise? Swear on your periodic table.
    
    Good. I'll do it, trust me. How about a little space...
    
    Wow, teacher actually looks away! If Ray was here I could pass    
    him a note. But to keep Spengs happy, here goes:
    
    Dream of Dr. Peter Venkman. Date, hmm. Last month--May 24. But    
    don't quote me on it. OK, have to think, it's been a while--I    
    didn't know our resident geniuses would want a record of it. It    
    wasn't that big a deal. I only mentioned it because what I caught    
    Egon talking about to Ray sounded similar.
    
    The first thing I recall, I was in a lab. Not this one;    
    actually I think it was Spengler's old lab at Columbia. I have a    
    foggy mental image of me sitting on that stool with the bent leg,    
    staring at a row of test tubes. No other sensory details that I    
    recall, no smells or sounds. Did have a strong impression I was    
    waiting for something.
    
    Then something walked in. That'd be Egon Spengler, and that's    
    the only part of this dream that I'm really sure about. I can't    
    forget his face. Forgive me for saying that I don't ever    
    want to see Egon looking like that in real life. This wasn't a    
    nightmare but it scared me--you would've scared yourself, Egon,    
    or at least pissed yourself off. You wore your Ghostbuster    
    uniform and you were your age now, maybe a little older, even,    
    but your hair was down--not like it was in college, really, more    
    like you just weren't bothering to style it anymore. Your glasses    
    had almost slipped off your nose, par for the course, but your    
    eyes were sunken, shadowed. Basically you looked like someone had    
    gone at your heart with a sledgehammer, and not in a good way,    
    either.
    
    You sure lit up when you saw me, though. And funny thing is, I    
    wasn't that worried. In real life if you walked in looking like    
    that, I'd have been scared out of my socks, but in the dream you    
    grabbed me and held on and I just grinned and took it. Like I    
    knew what was going on.
    
    Maybe I did. I definitely was telling you something, can't    
    remember what, though. I know we talked but I can't think of a    
    single word I said. We didn't stay in the lab, either; we went to    
    the firehall at one point, and then we were underground, maybe a    
    cave, or a tunnel. You'd think if we were just having a chat we'd    
    have gone to a nice bar in Tahiti. That's the one reason I'm    
    inclined to think there might have been an external cause to this    
    dream; usually my subconscious is more creative with the    
    architecture.
    
    I know Egon and Ray will want to know what we talked about,    
    but I've racked my brain and come up empty (and Ray better not    
    footnote this report, because if that's not an opportunity for a    
    take-down I don't know what is). If it is related to what's been    
    going on lately, maybe learning about it will help jar my memory.
    
    On the other hand, maybe this is completely irrelevant. I    
    would be able to make that judgment a little better if I had SOME    
    clue what's up.
    
    I know, everyone's been reading personal items. I wouldn't    
    actually peek into anyone's private records; what kind of    
    psychologist do you take me for? But a hint would be nice. And    
    you haven't found one thing by me? Okay, I don't keep a journal    
    like Janine and Ray. Egon's got his lab notebook, and Winston has    
    that pad he's always writing letters on. Me, I've never been one    
    for taking notes on my life, and I'm not about to volunteer my    
    little black book. But couldn't we stick in some of our bills to    
    see what I charged in this alternate dimension? I get pretty    
    detailed on some of those. Pretty creative, too...but no, you've    
    got enough to go on with everyone else's. I'm only a founding    
    member and senior partner. Why would I matter?
    
    Hmm. Egon wants a complete report. As a practicing    
    psychologist I feel obliged to add my observations of the last    
    week to everyone else's. Just to set the record straight, it is    
    my professional opinion that everyone on this team has gone    
    completely wiggy (minus myself, of course).
    
    Let's start with Janine, who has been quiet as a church mouse    
    trapped in a room with a starving, agnostic tiger. I don't know    
    how she can answer phones with this voluntary laryngitis. In all    
    fairness, I've overheard her addressing clients with her usual    
    "charm," but when I'm around she seems to lose all capacity for    
    speech. I know I have that affect on women, but Janine? To be    
    honest, I'd be worried, except she's acting normal compared to    
    the rest of you guys.
    
    Winston might be coming down with something. It would explain    
    why he didn't say anything after the bust yesterday. The whole    
    ride back I was whining up a storm about those bed-sheet sized    
    cobwebs, and Winston just looked at me with this silly grin. He    
    didn't tell me to shut up once and he laughed a couple of times,    
    and I wasn't being all that funny. Has to be delirium. Either    
    that or he's got himself a new girl, or maybe a new car.
    
    Speaking of that bust, remind me to wear spikes next time.    
    Keep the guys back a bit--I need enough elbow room to swing the    
    thrower. Okay, I said we should stick together, but I meant like    
    glue, not nuclear bonds. I felt like a neutron in a lithium atom,    
    with three protons not letting go (There's a metaphor to shock    
    Egon. Told you I wasn't cheating when I won that last trivial    
    pursuit round on the science question.)
    
    By the way, Spengs, I know you want that new hyper-density    
    particle accelerator. I'm working on fitting it into our budget.    
    You don't have to brown-nose--though the lasagna you and Winston    
    cooked for me yesterday was delish. Guess a little more brown-   
    nosing wouldn't hurt. Especially if it gets you out of the lab,    
    because you have been spending way too much time in there this    
    last week. It sounded like you and Ray got something working this    
    afternoon; maybe you eggheads can take a break tonight. There's a    
    couple flicks out I'd like to catch. Or we can rent the latest    
    Star Trek movie and Ray can nitpick all the continuity problems    
    while you point out every scientific inaccuracy. Zed and I will    
    just enjoy the show. We all need to relax, that's my professional    
    diagnosis. Whatever you've been looking at, it can't be that bad.    
    It didn't happen, right? So it's pointless to stress about it.
    
    And you're definitely stressing. Two days ago, Ray came    
    downstairs after a session in front of that screen, and for no    
    reason whatsoever grabbed me and gave me a hug that would put a    
    Kodiak bear to shame. He might have had tears in his eyes. If I    
    hadn't seen the previews for the new TV show I would've thought    
    Captain Steel had been canceled again.
    
    Ray was smiling, though, and before he let go I heard him    
    whisper something. "We're so lucky." You said it softly but I    
    know that was it, Tex.
    
    Of course we're lucky. I knew that already. Even you've got to    
    concede that, Egon; we would've gone out with Gozer if we    
    weren't. But the weird thing is, when Ray said 'we,' I had this    
    feeling that he wasn't including me in it. That he was talking    
    about all of you. And that's crazy. Because yeah, we're lucky,    
    but I know I'm the luckiest one. I've got proof in every cup of    
    cocoa Egon makes, every swipe Winston takes at my ego, every    
    pillow Ray gets Slimer to "enhance." I know it every time I go on    
    a bust with you guys at my back.
    
    You're going to tell me what the hell went on that's got you    
    all so rattled. And then we're going to file this whole report    
    away and not take it out for a good long time, if we ever need to    
    look at it again. But I want to make this clear, before we let it    
    go. I know how lucky I am, don't think I don't. I know. I smile    
    whenever I think of it.
    
    And I do think of it. Every day.
    
    6/14/--   
    end report   
    


End file.
